Elvis Presley: Elvis (1968)

ELVIS PRESLEY: ELVIS (1968)

1) Trouble / Guitar Man; 2) Medley: Lawdy Miss Clawdy / Baby What You Want Me To Do / Heartbreak Hotel / Hound Dog / All Shook Up / Canʼt Help Falling In Love / Jailhouse Rock / Love Me Tender; 3) Where Could I Go But To The Lord? / Up Above My Head / Saved; 4) Blue Christmas / One Night; 5) Memories; 6) Medley: Nothingville / Big Boss Man / Guitar Man / Little Egypt / Trouble / Guitar Man; 7) If I Can Dream.

General verdict: The famous «out of the frying pan and into the fire» Comeback Special — like watching a paralyzed man trying to relearn to walk, with mixed success.

And here it is, folks — The Comeback Special in all its glory, though the original LP, faithfully reproducing most of the material from the broadcast of December 3, 1968, certainly pales in scope next to The Complete edition from 2008, with 4 CDs covering the entirety of the sessions for the special. Were I a big fan of The Special, I would have certainly looked that one up. Unfortunately, Iʼm not, and never have been, and here is why.

There are clearly no doubts as to the fact that the Elvis Special was the first Elvis-related project in years which the King actually enjoyed — or that it was a major turning point in his career, marking the transition from a life dominated by movies to a life once again dominated by live performances and regular studio recordings. One question, however, which I very rarely see thrown around, seems quite obvious to me: if this program, and whatever steps followed it, are regarded as a «comeback» for Elvis, then why the hell did this comeback last for just a few years? Why did it quickly evolve into a pompous Vegasy ritual for affluent middle-aged ladies? Why the drugs, the obesity, the deteriorating quality of both recorded material and live performances? Was there really a «comeback» in the first place, or?...

Upon first glance, what the enthralled audiences saw in that TV studio in mid-ʼ68 (and millions of people later witnessed during the broadcast) was a freshened up, rejuvenated, exhilarated Elvis, dressed in imposing black leather, surrounded by his trusty bandmates, thrusting his hips like there was no tomorrow, performing a smorgasbord of his classic hits, real rockʼnʼroll stuff, none of all that recent movie crap — just look at the track listing. A few gospel classics thrown in for good measure, a good old Christmas song, great ballads like ʽCanʼt Help Falling In Loveʼ and ʽLove Me Tenderʼ. Scottie Moore himself back in top form and soloing like crazy! Like itʼs 1957 all over again, or something like that.

Alas, it was all for naught in the long run. If you want to see a real comeback — well, maybe not a «comeback» per se, but a set of authentic, credible, exciting, relevant live performances from the rockʼnʼroll pioneers, look no further than the Toronto RockʼnʼRoll Revival festival from 1969, with Chuck Berry, Little Richard, and Jerry Lee Lewis performing next to younger and hipper artists (including some odd guy called John Lennon, among others) and proudly holding their own ground, just doing their old thang and submitting themselves to the all-powerful God of RockʼnʼRoll. Next to those fairly ferocious performances, the Elvis Comeback Special most certainly pales in comparison because it was, first and foremost, a SuperStar Show, a Celebration of Celebrity. Instead of being about rockʼnʼroll, it was all about King Elvis — although the greatest irony of it all was that King Elvis himself may have very well thought that it was really all about rockʼnʼroll after all.

The very setting of the show — a tiny lighted square grid, surrounded on all sides by adoring fans, within the space of which the King would be promenading his leather-clad hips — ironically resembles a locked cage, with a captive, if not fully tamed, tiger walking from one end to another and back again. The performances themselves are rowdy and spirited, but the format is rather ridiculous: most of the songs are actually snippets, bound together in lengthy medleys, as if the aim of the show was to remind the population of how many classic hits this wonderful man has had in his previous life, rather than just let everybody have a good time. Even the leather, truth be told, looks rather silly — remember that in the Fifties Elvis had no need whatsoever to borrow the rebellious Gene Vincent look in order to succeed, and it certainly has not become a natural look for him in the next decade, either; no wonder that «leather-clad Elvis» so quickly gave way to the «jumpsuit Elvis» once he returned to live performing fulltime.

To be clear: in the context of the time, the Comeback Special was a massive breakthrough for Elvis — and itʼs not like there isnʼt a lot of fun involved in listening to this performance. When the King breaks into ʽHeartbreak Hotelʼ or ʽHound Dogʼ, brief as those moments are, he must have felt as if he was punching through a wall with each of these verses — he delivers them with the grotesquely overworked abandon of a starved man who doesnʼt really care if he dies on the spot from overeating, he just gonna do it, come hell or high water. When he half-accidentally, half-intentionally butchers stuff like ʽLove Me Tenderʼ or ʽOne Nightʼ with unfunny improvised lyrics, it is, too, the act of a drunken man on the night of the lifting of Prohibition. But then he starts rambling on the current state of music ("I like a lot of the new groups, you know..."), or patting his bandmates on the back, or going all spasmodic on the surrounding fans, and this is where you are reminded that the Comeback Special is a show, first and foremost, and has much more to do with Elvisʼ personality cult than with the spirit of rockʼnʼroll.

No better reminder of that than the opening and closing sequences — a burlesque medley of ʽTroubleʼ and ʽGuitar Manʼ in the beginning, and a mini-musical about Elvis as a struggling artist at the end. The songs are all good, but the arrangements are predictably Vegas-ified (oh those stupid, stupid, stupid brass howls in the intro to ʽGuitar Manʼ!), and the emphasis is always on the King-Is-Back thing rather than the music. It is quite telling that they hired Steve Binder to direct it all — the man previously known for directing the T.A.M.I. Show in 1964, way back when this glitzy stylistics was actually cutting edge and did not take the proper attention away from the artistry (like, your eyes were probably still glued to James Brown and the Rolling Stones rather than the vapid go-go girls shaking it in the background). But what may have worked for all sorts of audiences in 1964 could only work for very specific types of audiences in 1968, when the «cutting edge» format would rather be describing something like The Rolling Stones RockʼnʼRoll Circus than the Comeback Special.

Consequently, there are only three things I genuinely like about it all. First, I like to see people happy, and Elvis here was quite credibly happy, so I canʼt help but feel a little happy about him, too — happy-sad, of course, realising that in the long run this was the first step on the road that led him to even further humiliation and, ultimately, the grave; but thereʼs something to be said and enjoyed about the short run as well, after all. Second, being a big Scotty Moore fan, it is really great to see him in close-up action on the stage (given how little footage of Elvis we have from the Fifties and how it never ever focuses on his backing players), and, by the way, it is sad that the original album omitted what was possibly the most touching and thrilling moment inside their little boxing ring — the performance of ʽThatʼs Alright, Mamaʼ by Elvis and his original band (minus Bill Black, who passed away in 1965).

Third, the show and album conclude with ʽIf I Can Dreamʼ, the song that marks Elvisʼ transition into the gospel-soul business and whose quality and passion, in my opinion, trump just about every single moment on From Elvis In Memphis — perhaps because it was such a fresh take for the King at the moment: heʼd wrestled the right to sing the song from the Colonel, who did not think it suitable for his protegé (for a good reason — what would make the Colonel care about his artist singing MLK quotations instead of "old MacDonald had a farm"?), and he really gave it his all — there is an out-of-control tear in his voice here that you never heard before even on his gospel recordings, let alone all the cute pop songs. If there is one single moment of complete honesty and genuine emotion here, ʽIf I Can Dreamʼ is it, and upon hearing it, you can actually understand what he meant when he said "Iʼm never going to sing another song I donʼt believe in" (even if I am really not sure that he truly kept that promise).

In the end, it is absolutely no sin to enjoy Elvis ʼ68 and get caught up in the excitement; it is simply important to realise that, while this was certainly an important and glaringly obvious change in direction, the word «comeback» is not a very good one to describe the event — not coincidentally, the word itself made its first appearance in the Colonelʼs discourse when, soon after the show, heʼd announced a «comeback tour» for Elvis. Sadly, a «comeback» to the values that imbued and defined his classic years was really out of the question — like demanding the victim of a serious stroke to «come back» to his original state of health. The good thing about it is that it managed to give us Elvis, the credible soul singer, for a few years. The bad thing about it is that it really failed to give us back Elvis, the intoxicating rockʼnʼroller. 

Elvis Presley: Speedway

ELVIS PRESLEY: SPEEDWAY (1968)

1) Speedway; 2) There Ainʼt Nothing Like A Song; 3) Your Time Hasnʼt Come Yet Baby; 4) Who Are You; 5) Heʼs Your Uncle Not Your Dad; 6) Let Yourself Go; 7) Your Groovy Self; 8) Five Sleepy Heads; 9) Western Union; 10) Mine; 11) Goinʼ Home; 12) Suppose.

General verdict: Just another typical later-period Elvis soundtrack — nothing to indicate that it would be his last, though if they had the good sense to involve Lee Hazlewood a bit more, I might even have regretted that.

Although Elvis starred in at least six more movies after Clambake, Speedway would be the only one of these and, consequently, the very last full-fledged Elvis soundtrack LP accompanying a feature film (rather than a TV show or concert documentary). Doubtlessly, this had to do with plummeting sales — with its miserable profits, the album became the final nail in the coffin of the Elvis soundtrack album. Yet, once again, in the overall context of Elvisʼ Sixties output, it is nowhere near as boring and irrelevant as the 1965–66 stretch of embarrassments. Once again, we are dealing here with a bizarre mixed bag — some nicely acceptable goodies going hand-in-hand with true Kings of Corn.

The big deal about Speedway, the movie, was that it featured Nancy Sinatra as Elvisʼ co-star; and while it would be unfair to all the truly great ladies of the Sixties to regard Nancy Sinatra as a top tier artist for the decade, she had at least two things going for her — a touch of tough, edgy class and collaboration with Lee Hazlewood. Both of these things work wonders for us with the inclusion into the soundtrack of one song that has absolutely nothing to do with Elvis — the Hazlewood-written slow «country cabaret» tune ʽYour Groovy Selfʼ, delivered by Nancy in her fairly trademark «half-empowered, half-stoned» hazy drawl, oozing sardonic mid-Sixties cool in a way that would be totally unthinkable for Elvis himself.

She does cross paths with Elvis on the Joy Byers-written ʽThere Ainʼt Nothing Like A Songʼ, though «written» is a bit too strong — most of the time, Byers takes old classics and tweaks them in slight ways, this one being no exception: it is really just an updated, overproduced take on ʽKing Creoleʼ, but at least the tempo is fast, the drums are crashing, the guitar solo is tight, and Nancyʼs responses to the Kingʼs calls in the final verse add a touch of diversity; I could never say, though, that there is anything here even remotely recalling the kind of chemistry that Elvis had with Ann-Margret. Too bad — with a bit more work, we could have gleefully enjoyed a pair of hip boots walking all over the Kingʼs hillbilly chauvinist persona, but perhaps the song- and screenwriters were taking conscious effort at this point so as not to humiliate their star beyond reasonable limits.

They did a decent enough job on the title track, another Vegas-rocker partially redeemed by some nice boogie piano and a semi-inspired vocal workout; ʽYour Time Hasnʼt Come Yet Babyʼ, a pleasantly upbeat acoustic ballad written by team newcomer Joel Hirschhorn in a style vaguely reminiscent of Elvisʼ late Fifties material like; and ʽLet Yourself Goʼ, another Joy Byers «composition» which is really just a Vegas-ization of Willie Dixonʼs ʽLittle Babyʼ but thatʼs alright, weʼll take it for lack of anything better.

On the downside, Ben Weisman and Sid Wayne offer another fine, totally justified contribution for Elvisʼ Greatest Shit — that one song with the unforgettable title ʽHeʼs Your Uncle, Not Your Dadʼ. Like any respectable, well-meaning, law-abiding citizen of this planet, I did not doubt for a second that this was going to be a song about good old incest before putting it on — so imagine my disappointment when it turned out that the «uncle» in question was Uncle Sam, and that the song itself was an «ironic» parody on a patriotic military march. Honestly, what with the Kingʼs total inability to carry off anything ironic, sarcastic, or plain humorous, Iʼd probably have preferred the song to be a sincere patriotic march — but then again, perhaps we could do without patriotic marching altogether? (It doesnʼt help much if you actually watch the choreography in the movie, either — the most pitiful thing in the world is trying to look funny without having the first idea of how to achieve a properly comedic effect).

Once again, the total number of new songs (seven) was barely enough to fill up one side of the LP, so they had to quickly scrape together some leftovers — unfortunately, three of them came from the rotten factory of Bennett and Tepper, including ʽWestern Unionʼ from 1963 (yet another wretched attempt to recreate the success of ʽReturn To Senderʼ, almost note-for-note) and the utterly generic lullaby ʽFive Sleepy Headsʼ. Only Joy Byersʼ ʽGoinʼ Homeʼ is worthy of a bit of attention — I cannot identify the exact folk / country source from which she ripped off that one (probably something by Johnny Cash), but at least the King sounds a bit more authentic and inspired on this one. Still, with even the bonus tracks now incapable to bring up the value of the finished product, it is easy to see why Speedway marked the long-awaited end of Elvisʼ sound­track business: even the trusty corporate mafia were getting tired hacking out new material for the movies. For most of his subsequent movies, they would contribute 2–3 new songs on average, and it was fairly clear that it no longer truly made any difference if Elvis were to sing anything in the movie or not. In fact, itʼs ridiculous that the machine still kept rolling on, by inertia, for at least half a year after the comeback special. But hey, at least we got to see the man getting it on with Mary Tyler Moore in Change Of Habit. 

Elvis Presley: Clambake

ELVIS PRESLEY: CLAMBAKE (1967)

1) Guitar Man; 2) Clambake; 3) Who Needs Money?; 4) A House That Has Everything; 5) Confidence; 6) Hey, Hey, Hey; 7) You Donʼt Know Me; 8) The Girl I Never Loved; 9) How Can You Lose What You Never Had; 10) Big Boss Man; 11) Singing Tree; 12) Just Call Me Lonesome; 13) Hi-Heel Sneakers.

General verdict: Much of this «clambake» is inedible as usual, but fortunately for us, Elvisʼ movie songwriters are getting really tired and lazy, leaving a few nice empty spots for good people to come and fill ʼem up.

Everything written about Double Trouble applies equally well to Clambake, the soundtrack to a movie that could just as well be a culinary show, because, honestly, who cared at the time? As an album, Clambake is a roughly proportioned mix of horrible novelty numbers; derivative but listenable pop-rock fodder; and a few classics whose presence is randomized but not totally accidental, because every once in a while the man would stick his head out of his shell and take a bite of juicy stuff — before being beaten back under cover with another batch of Bennett and Tepper compositions.

The obvious classic here is the very first track (which wasnʼt even in the movie, and so much the better for it) — Elvisʼ cover of Jerry Reedʼs freshly released ʽGuitar Manʼ, with Jerry Reed in person manning that acoustic guitar because, allegedly, nobody around Elvis could properly replicate Reedʼs finger-picking style. You could say that here was another little gem of a country-rock song stolen by Elvis from a lesser known artist, but truth is, the song was perfect for Elvis: Reedʼs voice is that of a charismatic country trickster, while Elvis is a raging force of nature, and the feeling of triumph over all the obstacles that life throws in your way is felt much more bluntly on the Elvis version. (It also boasts cleaner and subtler production, but this is to be expected — all of Elvisʼ Sixties records were polished to perfection, so if you are rather after a bit of lo-fi rawness, stick to the original instead). In any case, the good news is that Elvis and Reed really clicked on that session, and the result is another track that can proudly stand up to any randomly chosen Elvis classic from his golden years.

Other above-average material, also recorded to pad out the scanty soundtrack, includes Jimmy (not Jerry) Reedʼs ʽBig Boss Manʼ, with Jerry (not Jimmy) Reed also manning the guitar and Charlie McCoy blowing the harmonica all through the song, as if trying to gain supremacy over the lead vocal (sometimes he actually succeeds); and a couple of decent country ballads, such as ʽSinging Treeʼ and ʽYou Donʼt Know Meʼ, which Elvis sings with total conviction.

Unfortunately and predictably, the soundtrack material is quite rotten in comparison — the worst offenders being Randy Starrʼs vaudeville ditty ʽWho Needs Money?ʼ (a very stupid duet with Elvisʼ co-star in the movie) and, of course, ʽConfidenceʼ, in many respects a spiritual successor to ʽOld MacDonaldʼ and another fully deserving entry on the famous compilation Elvisʼ Greatest Shit. As a Sesame Street number, it would have been perfectly adequate; as something through which every loyal grown-up admirer of the King had to be put, itʼs humiliating torture. One only has to wonder if the man was forced to wear breeches and suspenders in the studio for extra authenticity. And caned on the butt after each bad take.

Even Joy Byers is not fully up to task this time; her ʽHey, Hey, Heyʼ, seemingly a rip-off of some old Motown dance number that I do not quite recognize, is way too old-fashioned for 1967 — this kind of style had gone out at least a year or two ago, together with the likes of Shindig. This leaves the title track as the most «modern» number, with the obligatory distorted electric guitar lick and the glitzy-swaggy Tom Jones attitude — but, of course, you canʼt do all that much with a song whose chorus goes "mammaʼs little baby loves clambake, clambake, mammaʼs little baby loves clambake too". Heck, it doesnʼt even work as a gross sexual innuendo, unless you somehow find a way to work «sausagefest» in there too.

Still, on the whole it is once again amusing and intriguing to witness the ongoing battle of the «soundtrack agenda» with «re-emerging artistic inclinations» — here is yet another record where Elvis is sort of left to his own devices whenever there is empty space to be filled on the chunk of vinyl, and one could argue that, paradoxically, it was precisely this filler problem that ultimately aided Elvis in resuscitating and prolonging his artistic life by a few years. 

Elvis Presley: Double Trouble

ELVIS PRESLEY: DOUBLE TROUBLE (1967)

1) Double Trouble; 2) Baby, If Youʼll Give Me All Your Love; 3) Could I Fall In Love; 4) Long Legged Girl; 5) City By Night; 6) Old MacDonald; 7) I Love Only One Girl; 8) There Is So Much World To See; 9) It Wonʼt Be Long; 10) Never Ending; 11) Blue River; 12) What Now, What Next, Where To.

General verdict: Passable glitzy pop-rock entertainment with a few serious lows — almost a masterpiece compared to the depths plumbed a couple of years before.

Although this and the next few soundtracks art not so great by any means, I believe that any honest evaluation of them as proper LPs should admit that they are nowhere near as bad as that entire stretch from 1965 to early 1966, pre-Spinout. Want it or not, times had forced the Elvis team to adapt at least a little, and much of this material sounds relatively passable for the early rock music era. With a new haircut, lightly foreshadowing the «comeback Elvis» style; a new producer (Jeff Alexander, who had previously composed the instrumental score to a few of his better movies, including Jailhouse Rock); and a slightly higher rate of solid songwriters than usual, Double Trouble is... well, still a disappointment, but not nearly as much of a disappointment as it could have been under different circumstances.

I do believe that the many one-star ratings for the LP generally have to do with the presence of ʽOld MacDonaldʼ. Rather arrogantly credited to the infamous «songwriting dentist» Randy Starr because some of the old lyrics have been changed to make the song more «edgy», it is, once again, something perfectly acceptable if it were spontaneously delivered during some drunken binge with Elvisʼ friends, but certainly not in the context of an album promising healthy, whole­some entertainment, whatever that might mean. The song proudly takes its place next to ʽPetunia, The Gardenerʼs Daughterʼ, ʽQueenie Wahineʼs Papayaʼ, and other similar mega-embarrassments of the Kingʼs career — and not, of course, due to the fact that Elvis chose to perform a generic nursery rhyme, but precisely because he chose to perform it as a pseudo-humorous «adult take» on a generic nursery rhyme, one of those vaudeville travesties for which many, many grown-up persons have already been condemned to eternal flames of Hell.

But that is just one song, and although the soundtrack has a few other moments of blatant corn (Tepper and Bennettʼs ʽI Love Only One Girlʼ, a new and stupid English translation of the French chanson-cum-military-march ʽLe Prisonnier De Hollandeʼ, is the second worst offender), on the whole it turns out to be surprisingly listenable, and in a few places even unpredictable. The title track, written by Pomus and Shuman, is harmless cocky Tom Jones-y jazz-pop; the ever-reliable Joy Byers comes up with the predictably derivative ʽBaby, If Youʼll Give Me All Of Your Loveʼ, a fast, driving song that is melodically reminiscent of ʽWear My Ring Around Your Neckʼ; and John Leslie McFarlandʼs ʽLong Legged Girlʼ is as good a Little Richard pastiche as probably was physically possible at the time, though the frantic rocker could have benefited from removing its horns and throwing on some electric guitar licks instead — after all, the song does begin with a few gruff, distorted guitar chords, though they strangely never appear again after the opening five seconds. At least, it wasnʼt the worst possible choice for a single.

The real surprise of the entire project, though, is ʽCity By Nightʼ, a rather unusual creation from the very usual songwriting team of Baum, Giant, and Kaye. It is essentially a jazz serenade, a bit Duke Ellington-style, perhaps, with some nifty trombone parts and a smoky midnight vibe — a cliché in itself, perhaps, but still cooler and edgier than the usual corny vaudeville stuff they typically served to Elvis. The fact that this tune, clearly the winner of the entire game on here, is immediately followed by ʽOld MacDonaldʼ, only goes to show how much of a roulette wheel Elvisʼ career was at this point — nobody really gave a damn, which is really the main reason why it is a bit fascinating to be checking all those soundtracks in retrospect: you never know when exactly you are going to fall upon that single pearl amidst all the manure, but even if the pearl never comes, the manure in question comes in so many different forms and flavors that you cannot deny the element of a very perverse intrigue in here.

Another good thing is that the soundtrack was so short they had to, once again, pad it out with some oldies scooped up from past sessions — including, among a few lesser selections, ʽBlue Riverʼ, an old and nearly lost B-side from 1963 which, along with ʽLittle Sisterʼ, is probably Elvisʼ most rocking and fun early Sixties song. Fast, sharp, fully guitar-based, with a couple kick-ass solo breaks (from Hank Garland, probably), its two minutes kick the ass of each single «rocker» on here by reminding you that there used to be a time when Elvisʼ rockʼnʼroll was not coated over with production glitz, and that bits and pieces of that time did survive well into the early Sixties. Sure, the song really has no business being on here, but at least this gives me a good pretext to mention it — without having to dig up compilations.

Oh, and, obviously, Double Trouble was the soundtrack to an actual movie, but this time around, I forgot to look up the plot. Allegedly, itʼs a «comedy-thriller» with a slightly unusual plot for Elvis (the original script was written with Julie Christie rather than Elvis in mind!), so it might be worth a look for, I dunno, fans of the classic James Bond stylistics or something. Me, Iʼm just paying attention to that haircut.

Elvis Presley: How Great Thou Art

ELVIS PRESLEY: HOW GREAT THOU ART (1967)

1) How Great Thou Art; 2) In The Garden; 3) Somebody Bigger Than You And I; 4) Farther Along; 5) Stand By Me; 6) Without Him; 7) So High; 8) Where Could I Go But To The Lord; 9) By And By; 10) If The Lord Wasnʼt Walking By My Side; 11) Run On; 12) Where No One Stands Alone; 13) Crying In The Chapel.

General verdict: Feels almost like the real thing — definitely as close to «true gospel» as the man would ever get. Who needs psychedelia when you have the King on your side?

Once again, context is everything. Surrounded by the Kingʼs golden great rockʼnʼroll classics, this album would have probably seemed underwhelming in comparison, particularly to a not particularly religious conscience (like mine). But surrounded on both chronological sides with Elvisʼ soundtrack fluff, How Great Thou Art is not simply a breath of fresh air — it literally towers over all of that crap as a genuine artistic masterpiece.

One thing is for sure: it is definitely the most creative, curious, and deeply felt of his three gospel albums. The main problem with His Hand In Mine was that it was really a «gospel» album only on the surface: at heart, it was really an album of sentimental crooning balladry — nice and well-meaning, but way too slight to evoke a properly spiritual response. With this experience — and let us not forget that it was actually Elvisʼ first proper new album in five years — it feels as if the man had actually realized that himself, and tried to rise up to the challenge of creating a true gospel experience this time. With a brand new producer (Felton Jarvis), a set of tunes that Elvis mostly picked out himself rather than had imposed on him, an actual gospel quartet joining him for backup (The Imperials), and even a set of arrangements for traditional tunes credited to Elvis Presley in person, he clearly wanted to make something different, and he largely succeeded.

Even the track order matters here: instead of being interspersed with each other as they were on His Hand In Mine, here the slow and solemn hymns are all put together on the first side, while the fast and ruckus-raising spirituals are confined to Side B. This creates a risk of bringing on monotonous boredom, but it also eliminates the risk of «mood killing», and at least on the first side — the most interesting one, if you ask me — the approach pays off well. Two things are immediately noticeable — a huge emphasis on keyboards, usually piano and more rarely organ, with far more sophisticated and tempestuous arrangements than before; and a new sort of depth and seriousness to Elvisʼ singing, as he goes lower than he has done in years, generally refraining from sensual crooning and going for something more «earthy», if you know what I mean.

Of those six opening songs, the unhurried waltzing of ʽFarther Alongʼ is my favorite — maybe because of the lyrics, whose significance goes far beyond simplistic Christian conventions, or maybe because somehow Elvis manages to turn it almost personal; it is interesting that if you compare the song to other versions, from the Byrds all the way to Brad Paisley, Elvisʼ one actually omits the decisive third verse (basically the one that states how Jesus is going to solve all your problems) and only includes the first two (listing the actual problems). Whatever be the actual truth, the gut impression is that of a tired, exhausted, but still deeply optimistic person quietly praying for alleviation — almost like a veiled cry for help, which comes across as doubly significant if you are aware of the context in which these sessions were held.

But there are other highlights, too. The title track has an interesting construction, starting out without a rhythm section, just wave upon wave of impressionistic piano playing and occasional thunder-imitating drumrolls, then smoothly transitioning into another anthemic waltz with huge booming choruses, subtly attenuated by an uncredited string section. And ʽSomebody Bigger Than You And Iʼ may be seen as an early precursor to Elvisʼ bigger-than-life, ʽSuspicious Mindsʼ et al. style, but still with much more restraint than most of his Vegas-style material, probably because most of the «pomp» is generated by the loudness of the Imperialsʼ backing vocals and the mighty organ, rather than glitzy strings and horns.

The second side of the album, opening with the fast-paced ʽSo Highʼ and rarely losing the tempo, is not as sonically interesting, but you could still argue that there is more genuine rockʼnʼroll energy and inspiration in songs like ʽSo Highʼ and ʽRun Onʼ than in all of the manʼs soundtracks from the previous couple of years combined. ʽBy And Byʼ actually features fuzzy electric guitar riffage (!), while ʽRun Onʼ (more commonly known as ʽGodʼs Gonna Cut You Downʼ, but they probably wanted to avoid unnecessarily violent connotations on the album sleeve) cannot exactly hope to compete with the ground-shaking intensity of a Blind Willie Johnson, but still winds the man up tighter and tenser than anything since the days of ʽReady Teddyʼ. ITʼS ALIVE!

Naturally, one should not get too excited: Elvis still hasnʼt become a true gospel prophet, and there are one too many slow waltzing tempos on here to insist that the gospel theme might be used here as just a vehicle for experimentation and rejuvenation. And coming out with even a good gospel album in 1967, the year of Sgt. Pepper, was hardly the right move to re-establish a good working relation with the progressive critical minds. Yet it is quite clear that here, for the second time in a row after the (very relative) freshness of Spinout, was something that the King did not need to be ashamed of — so, for all purposes, we might as well consider that the manʼs actual «comeback» starts here, rather than with the «comeback special» and In Memphis, even if we would still have to deal with more soundtrack embarrassments in between. 

Elvis Presley: Spinout

ELVIS PRESLEY: SPINOUT (1966)

1) Stop, Look And Listen; 2) Adam And Evil; 3) All That I Am; 4) Never Say Yes; 5) Am I Ready; 6) Beach Shack; 7) Spinout; 8) Smorgasbord; 9) Iʼll Be Back; 10) Tomorrow Is A Long Time; 11) Down In The Alley; 12) Iʼll Remember You.

General verdict: A slightly outstanding soundtrack in that it at least briefly acknowledges the arrival of a new musical era with new musical values.

Oh wow, there are actual signs of life here! Do not get your hopes up too much — we are talking just a few relatively bright spots in a stable sea of hogwash, nothing close to a true «comeback»; but the objective facts are such that the soundtrack to Spinout is Elvisʼ first ever album to acknowledge, one way or the other, that the world of music did actually move on since the days of Frankie Avalon. Maybe we should thank George Stoll, who had earlier produced the Viva Las Vegas soundtrack as well, or maybe we should be grateful to the particularly odious Giant / Baum / Kaye songwriting team for only contributing one stupid corny tune this time around (the tropical sex anthem ʽBeach Shackʼ) — whatever the matter, Spinout is almost inarguably the strongest of all of Elvisʼ mid-to-late-Sixties soundtracks. This is not saying all that much, but it is definitely saying something.

The good news are announced with the very first track: ʽStop, Look And Listenʼ (written by the generally reliable Joy Byers) is a lighthearted, but sharp-sounding pop rocker, certainly more appropriate for a go-go girls performance on Shindig! than for the Monterey Festival, but played with genuine rockʼnʼroll verve and featuring what should qualify as an «experimental» guitar solo for Elvis — played by Tommy Tedesco, I believe, through a Leslie speaker or something. No, itʼs not amazing by any means, but hearing this kind of sound after half a dozen completely retrograde soundtracks is such a drink of cool, clear water that I am almost ready to forgive this album any of its upcoming sins in advance.

Fortunately, ʽStop, Look And Listenʼ is not just a fluke: throughout the album, one continuously encounters traces of decent contemporary production and convincing atmosphere. The Pomus-Shuman composition ʽNever Say Yesʼ is just a slice of standard Bo Diddley beat, but when it is delivered with crackling, fuzzy rhythm guitar at a head-spinning fast tempo, then even the Kingʼs ever-softening voice starts regaining certain powerful overtones, almost forgotten after hours and hours of consuming Queenie Wahineʼs papayas. The title track brings back the tastefully treated electric guitar of ʽStop, Look And Listenʼ, and although it is essentially a Tom Jones-style cabaret number, at least its somber swagginess finally sounds in step with the times. Finally, ʽIʼll Be Backʼ is a generic mid-tempo blues-rocker, graced with lively backing vocals, screechy guitars, and even a few shadows of Elvisʼold rockabilly voice, with those almost forgotten alternations of exuberant high and somber low that heʼd largely left behind in the Fifties.

While everything else on the soundtrack proper is largely forgettable (but usually not horrible), the main attention has always been tied to tracks tacked on at the end which had no relation to the movie at all — such as a quality cover of The Cloversʼ old hit ʽDown In The Alleyʼ, and, most importantly, a five-minute long (!) acoustic cover of Bob Dylanʼs old song ʽTomorrow Is A Long Timeʼ, which Dylan allegedly referred to as the one cover of a song of his that he "treasured the most" — of course, everything Bob ever said in his life always has to be taken tongue-in-cheek, but it is worth noting that he said this in 1969, the year of Nashville Skyline, and that his own soft and crooning vocal tone on that album, amusingly, was quite similar in mood and overtones to Elvisʼ voice on this soft and crooning cover. Besides, five minutes long! Five! The longest Elvis song up to that point was ʽOld Shepʼ, and even that one was just four. If that ainʼt sufficient homage to one of the greatest post-Elvis forces in music, I donʼt know what is.

I will not spoil the positive impression by discussing the flaws of particularly inferior songs on the album — just reiterate that they are not enough to spoil the overall fun, but also state that you can really only taste that fun in full if, like me, you have previously sat through Harum Scarum, Frankie And Johnny and Paradise Hawaiian Style in a row. Look, even that sleeve photo is an upgrade — for the first time in at least three or four years, there is a slightly vivacious glint in the manʼs eyes, as if there was something out there on the horizon that finally piqued his interest. Alas, time would show that this was all an accident, but it wouldnʼt be the only one — and, after all, you can only stay under the water so long before you have to come up for at least one or two quick gulps of fresh air. Spinout is one such gulp.

Elvis Presley: Paradise, Hawaiian Style

ELVIS PRESLEY: PARADISE, HAWAIIAN STYLE (1966)

1) Paradise, Hawaiian Style; 2) Queenie Wahineʼs Papaya; 3) Scratch My Back; 4) Drums Of The Islands; 5) Datinʼ; 6) A Dogʼs Life; 7) House Of Sand; 8) Stop Where You Are; 9) This Is My Heaven; 10) Sand Castles.

General verdict: The good news is that there is not as much «Hawaiian Style» here as you might be afraid to expect. The bad news is thereʼs not much style here, period.

Looking at Elvisʼ serious expression on the album sleeve while listening to the music concealed within, I canʼt help but feeling like now I finally understand, after all these years, what Rodinʼs Thinker is thinking about after all. Beyond any doubt, what is troubling him is the most urgent, most important, most cosmic question of them all — does Queenie Wahineʼs Papaya truly rate higher than pineapple, pumpkin, or poy? And if we pick her papaya and hencewith play the game "Existence" to the end, are we truly guaranteed to put Queenie Wahine in perfect perpetual joy?

Perhaps if more people established such vital links back in 1966, Paradise, Hawaiian Style might have shared a better fortune than sinking without a trace, at best ignored and at worst maligned by critics and fans alike. Unfortunately, the movie still managed to make half a million dollars worth of profit, and the soundtrack still managed to sell 250,000 copies, all of which was fairly low, but enough to convince the Elvis Hit Machine that the formula was still working, and that it made more sense to stick to the tried and true than take any chances with the ongoing musical and cultural revolutions. Besides, itʼs hard to blame the Machine — after all, Hawaiʼi werenʼt any less popular as a tourist attraction in 1966 than they were in 1962, and with people having forgotten everything about Blue Hawaii, why not refresh their memory again?

Surprisingly, though, other than the really stupid tongue-twister masquerading as a song about «Queenie Wahine», the soundtrack is largely free of frontally obvious embarrassments (the ones usually consisting of trying too hard to make Elvis sound «hilarious» or trying too hard to fit him into some native costume or other). There are fewer genuinely cringeworthy moments here than I counted on either Harum Scarum, with its mock-Orientalism, or Frankie And Johnny, with its Buffalo Bill caricatures. Instead, it simply recreates and amplifies the standard flaw of that whole period — once again, they hire the same old team of corporate songwriters who do not give a flying fuck (sorry) about turning in quality work. As usual, each and every song on here falls back on old tropes and clichés, and not a single one needs to be remembered because they are all just pale imitations of past glories, be it ballad, rocker, or «catchy» pop song.

I mean, seriously — if you were to put a gun to my head and force me to declare at least one «winner», my innate sense of honesty would probably see my brains splattered on the wall rather than say, «...uh... uh... I dunno... ʽA Dogʼs Lifeʼ, perhaps? — no, not really, no». What can you do about the combination of a rigidly fluffy atmosphere with hooks that have all the freshness of a dead dog nicely stewing under a scorching Arizona sun? I cannot even bring myself to mentioning any of these tunes by name because, seriously, none of them deserves it. All of this only goes to reinforce my suspicion that «Paradise» is a very boring place indeed, and «Hawaiian Style» just throws some grass skirts into the pot, but does not make it any less boring. 

Elvis Presley: Frankie And Johnny

ELVIS PRESLEY: FRANKIE AND JOHNNY (1966)

1) Frankie And Johnny; 2) Come Along; 3) Petunia, The Gardenerʼs Daughter; 4) Chesay; 5) What Every Woman Lives For; 6) Look Out, Broadway; 7) Beginnerʼs Luck; 8) Down By The Riverside / When The Saints Go Marching In; 9) Shout It Out; 10) Hard Luck; 11) Please Donʼt Stop Loving Me; 12) Everybody Come Aboard.

General verdict: Sending Elvis down the Mississippi in 1966 seems to have worked exactly the same way as sending him to the Middle East — out of time, out of place, out of style, out of taste.

Well, it is now 1966, the year of Revolver and Pet Sounds, and at least we are not in pseudo-Ottoman Empire time any more — no, we have been merely relocated to faux-1920s, an age of vaudeville, Dixieland, crooners, and gypsy dancing. Replete with Mississippi River boating, fortune telling, gambling, visions of distant Broadway, and a cheesy happy ending, the movie managed the amazing feat of nosediving its way through stereotypes of Americana in an almost as embarrassing a fashion as Harum Scarum did with its Oriental imagery — and, once again, the soundtrack masterfully fitted the crime.

The absolute majority of the songs here faithfully recreate the musical formulas of the Jazz Age, without making these recreations interesting in the slightest — this is not so much «retro» as it is a laughably cartoonish projection of everything that could be hot and provoking back in those times. Starting off with the title track, a big band cover of the old popular standard transformed from a murder ballad into a piece of fat glitzy pomp in which Elvis cannot even play the clown with sufficient conviction; and then descending into such abysses of vaudeville cheesiness as ʽPetunia, The Gardenerʼs Daughterʼ (the kind of song youʼd usually expect to be performed without oneʼs pants on) and ʽChesayʼ (wooh, Elvis as the suave gypsy seducer!), this pathetic collection loses any glimmer of hope at redemption.

Not that it even tries. You could try to expect at least something half-decent from the albumʼs single Pomus-Shuman contribution, but ʽWhat Every Woman Lives Forʼ is a fairly lazy and totally predictable slow doo-wop dance number with a message that must have been pretty questionable even back in 1966 ("what every woman lives for is to give her love to a man" — gee, talk about presumptuous generalisations). Joy Byers, who used to be relatively reliable on the previous couple of soundtracks, must have also been caught on one of her off-days, contributing the ballad ʽPlease Donʼt Stop Loving Meʼ which uses exactly the same chord progression as approximately 10,000 other love ballads and whose lyrics were thrown together in five seconds by a human equivalent of a modern day bot.

Perhaps the most embarrassing thing on the album is a mash-up of ʽDown By The Riversideʼ and ʽWhen The Saints Go Marching Inʼ, officially credited to Bernie Baum, Bill Giant, and Florence Kaye — apparently they used some sort of loophole because of those songsʼ presence in the public domain. Admittedly, Elvis isnʼt too bad when he is singing this sort of material, but the mash-up thing feels corny, the «credits» feel lame, and trying to spice an overall rotten collection with a brief reenactment of a couple well-known classics is a pathetic idea which can only be justified by the fact that non-pathetic ideas were not officially allowed in that season — like Harum Scarum, everything here seems specially designed to make The King come across as The Clown. Long gone are the days of King Creole, when he was able to — or, well, «they» were able to make these Southern motives come alive, be fun, vibrant, and occasionally provocative. In their place we now have this sorry bunch of unintentionally parodic clichés which no respectable lover of New Orleanian culture will ever mistake for the real thing — they are every bit as comfortable as the look on Elvisʼ face as he stands there tucked into his Gone With The Wind outfit and probably wishes theyʼd send him back to the army or something, instead. 

Elvis Presley: Harum Scarum

ELVIS PRESLEY: HARUM SCARUM (1965)

1) Harem Holiday; 2) My Desert Serenade; 3) Go East, Young Man; 4) Mirage; 5) Kismet; 6) Shake That Tambourine; 7) Hey Little Girl; 8) Golden Coins; 9) So Close, Yet So Far; 10) Animal Instinct; 11) Wisdom Of The Ages.

General verdict: Elvis as the Thief of Bagdad? Going back to the 1920s for inspiration in 1965 probably wasnʼt the best possible idea.

Sometimes I am actually left stupefied when tracing Elvisʼ gradual degradation in the mid-Sixties. With pop culture in all of its forms and manifestations generally becoming more and more sophisticated in those years, one could have at least expected the King to try and retain the already established levels of mediocrity and corniness, even if he proved unable to adapt to the artistic requirements of the time. Instead, what we see should be inspiring conspiracy theorists all over the world — because movies and soundtracks such as Harum Scarum are pretty much unbelievable as «accidents», much more like somebodyʼs conscious attempts to bring a formerly respectable artist to the utmost depths of humiliation.

You need go no further than the movieʼs synopsis on Wikipedia to understand that the screenplay could, at best, be appreciated by 8-year olds, and that is even before we get around to discussing all the ridiculous Middle Eastern stereotypes which could only come from the mind of a screenwriter fully convinced that Lawrence Of Arabia was a movie about headscarves and camels. What is even worse, though, is that the soundtrack, this time, is in 100% agreement with the aesthetics of the movie — consisting largely of songs whose only purpose is to accumulate every single «Arabic» cliché known to Western society and convince us that, for some reason, this dude from Memphis would be an excellent medium for unleashing them upon our senses.

Remember these names: Bernie Baum, Bill Giant, Florence Kaye, Stanley J. Gelber, Sid Tepper, Roy C. Bennett — remember them, because when the Last Judgement comes and the Lord begins personally admonishing you for having led a life of sin, hedonism, and passive resistance, all you have to say is «Lord, Iʼve been a sinner, but do I really deserve the same treatment as all those people who wrote songs for Harum Scarum?», and the Lord will relent on you, just as he did with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. All of their songs for this album are cringeworthy exercises in joining elements of country-western and vaudeville with «exotic» Eastern musical motives and truly abysmal lyrics. The song titles alone, starting with ʽHarem Holidayʼ, tell you all you need to know — but, trust me, the melodic and emotional content of all these ditties rarely strays away from the banality and corniness of the titles.

To try and prove that I really did listen to the album more than once (its only advantage, after all, is that, like all of Elvisʼ soundtracks, it is gracefully short), I will say that one particular songwriter here stands an actual chance of avoiding the flames of Hell, and this is Joy Byers, the same Joy Byers who had a highlight on Viva Las Vegas! with ʽCʼmon Everybodyʼ. Her two contributions are fairly inoffensive and even somewhat attractive: ʽHey Little Girlʼ is a simple, generic, energetic piece of twist with mildly amusing predatory notes and growling piano interludes re-borrowed from ʽWhatʼd I Sayʼ, while ʽSo Close, Yet So Farʼ is a simple, generic, unvarnished doo-wop ballad with arguably Elvisʼ best vocal performance on here — at least there is some sort of dynamics and build-up, though some of the melodic moves seem to have been copped directly from Phil Spectorʼs ʽTo Know Him Is To Love Himʼ. But at least if you are mining for your songwriting ideas elsewhere, it is so much better to be mining in the mines of Ray Charles and Phil Spector than in the mines of your local strip clubs with «Oriental» themes.

At least it is a bit of a relief to know that this was the only such experiment in Elvis history, and that the near-total critical and commercial failure of the entire enterprise made the gang come back to their senses and return to the tried and true — because even among the endless sea of boring, unimaginative, derivative, and stereotypical movies and soundtracks produced for Elvis in the Sixties, Harum Scarum proudly lives up to its title and scares hares up to this very day. 

Elvis Presley: Elvis For Everyone!

ELVIS PRESLEY: ELVIS FOR EVERYONE! (1965)

1) Your Cheatinʼ Heart; 2) Summer Kisses, Winter Tears; 3) Finders Keepers, Losers Weepers; 4) In My Way; 5) Tomorrow Night; 6) Memphis Tennessee; 7) For The Millionth And The Last Time; 8) Forget Me Never; 9) Sound Advice; 10) Santa Lucia; 11) I Met Her Today; 12) When It Rains, It Really Pours.

General verdict: Chaotically mixed outtakes masquerading as an actual new LP — not a good choice for an era in which LPs had actually begun to matter.

There is arguably no better evidence for Elvisʼ total and absolute artistic dysfunctionality in the mid-Sixties than this sorry mess — an attempt at a «proper» studio LP, the manʼs first since Pot Luck three years earlier. Apparently, RCA wanted to give the fans a little something extra special to celebrate the 10th anniversary of their business union with the King, but instead of everybody coming to their senses and arranging a proper recording session, they decided to save everyone the trouble and just vent the vaults a little instead. Why bother with an actual new LP when there were already a couple of new soundtracks on the horizon, anyway?

The result is an odds-and-ends package whose title, surprisingly enough, is somewhat justified: For Everyone! means that any fan of any particular musical streak in Elvisʼ history will find at least one or two tracks to his/her liking in this cauldron. For those truly nostalgic about the good old days at Sun, there is the old Lonnie Johnson ballad ʽTomorrow Nightʼ, extracted from a 1954 session — unfortunately, the idiots misunderstood the appeal of the songʼs minimalistic arrangement and slapped on fully unnecessary percussion, guitar, and backing vocal overdubs (fortunately, nowadays you can easily hear the original version on compilations). For those yearning for the early RCA days, there is a cuddly, but inspired version of Hank Williamsʼ ʽYour Cheating Heartʼ, and the rough, slow R&B number ʽWhen It Rains, It Really Poursʼ, from 1958 and 1957 sessions, respectively. Then, moving on, for those who wanted proof that Elvis could still rock out with the British Invasion stepping heavily on his tail, there is a fairly smoking, if not too exceptional, take on Chuck Berryʼs ʽMemphis Tennesseeʼ, from 1964. Then...

...well, actually, then itʼs mostly pablum / schlock salvaged from early Sixtiesʼ sessions and an occasional song or two from soundtracks which never made it onto previous LPs, e.g. ʽSanta Luciaʼ from Viva Las Vegas or ʽSummer Kisses, Winter Tearsʼ from Flaming Star (the latter actually has a surprisingly sharp guitar sound for a ballad, though its slight «exotica» touch is still somewhat cringey). I am mildly partial to the playful vaudeville approach of ʽSound Adviceʼ, salvaged from the soundtrack to the 1962 movie Follow That Dream, perhaps because it brings to mind ridiculous visions of Elvis in a top hat, but nobody really needs to hear it, honestly. Also, ʽFinders Keepers, Losers Weepersʼ is a pretty decent pop song, musically close to ʽReturn To Senderʼ (perhaps this is why it was originally shelved) and arguably the best the Sixties material here — though this is not saying much, either.

In retrospect, I guess that, taken as a collection of outtakes for the completist, For Everyone! is not nearly as pitiful as it could be — but given that no such warning explicitly accompanied the original release, most people who had not allowed their hormones to completely overtake their brains could hardly regard this move as anything other than a pathetic cash-in, as well as plain admittance that the King was in no condition to make a new LP of his own, and this in an era when pop LPs were finally beginning to matter as genuine artistic statements. To add insult to injury, the back sleeve of the original album proudly presented a list of 15 of Elvisʼ «Worldwide $1,000,000 L.P. Albums» with precise sales records — as if hinting that Elvis For Everyone! had no choice but to join that glorious roster. Guess what — it did not, with the album failing even to go gold, let alone platinum; apparently, the people at that point were smart enough to realise that Elvis For Everyone! truly meant Elvis For No One In Particular, and many, if not most, of them simply left the scraps for the scrap bin. 

Elvis Presley: Girl Happy

ELVIS PRESLEY: GIRL HAPPY (1965)

1) Girl Happy; 2) Spring Fever; 3) Fort Lauderdale Chamber Of Commerce; 4) Startinʼ Tonight; 5) Wolf Call; 6) Do Not Disturb; 7) Cross My Heart And Hope To Die; 8) The Meanest Girl In Town; 9) Do The Clam; 10) Puppet On A String; 11) Iʼve Got To Find My Baby; 12) Youʼll Be Gone.

General verdict: If thatʼs a «girl happy» look on the front cover, then this album is a masterpiece.

The «big» number on this soundtrack is ʽPuppet On A Stringʼ, both the centerpiece of the movie (the song where the guy gets the girl) and the main single from the LP, with ʽWooden Heartʼ reused as the B-side by subconscious association (Elvis The Puppeteer). Tepper and Bennett really went all out on this one, trying to make it as suave as possible, but I think somebody ought to conduct a class sometime on the comparative virtues of this song and ʽHere, There And Everywhereʼ to illustrate the difference between «corny suave» and «magic suave». I guess that ultimately it still boils down to the fact that ʽPuppet On A Stringʼ, down at the core, is a very trivial and generic country shuffle, smoothed and silkened out with glossy production. Even the Jordanaires sound like hired guns whose only purpose is to put the baby to sleep.

At least Doc Pomus is back as main songwriter on the title track, whose fast tempo and rousing catchy chorus are easily the most memorable thing about this soundtrack — if you can get past the stereotypical gigolo lyrics, somehow unaccompanied by even the slightest hints of genuine sexual passion (Iʼm pretty sure that by that time Elvisʼ «girl-happy» period was long gone by), then I guess itʼs an okay enough composition and recording, though it never truly lives up to the potential of its twangy opening guitar line (played by new electric guitar player Tommy Tedesco, Duane Eddy-style).

Everything else is business and usual — rewrites and/or embarrassments. The lowest point is probably ʽFort Lauderdale Chamber Of Commerceʼ, sleazy to the core ("Girls on the beaches commit a sin / They donʼt show yards and yards of skin" is one of the worst lyrical lines ever submitted to the artist) and arranged as a relaxing Caribbean ballad to boot. But there is also ʽDo The Clamʼ, sanitizing Bo Diddleyʼs style for diabetic consumption; ʽCross My Heart And Hope To Dieʼ, another ridiculous mash-up of ʽToo Muchʼ and ʽStuck On Youʼ; and ʽWolf Callʼ, whose attempt at a mating call is neither subtle nor dangerous, just dumb. "Now donʼt tell me you donʼt fall / For that wolf call" is definitely the perfect way to net a womanʼs attention.

Perhaps the worst thing about it all is the sequencing. About 50% of the songs present Elvis as a sweet, gentle, exquisitely caring crooner-serenader, whereas the other 50% have him as an absolutely cringe-inducing sleazebag who has recently been kicked out of the first grade of the local pickup school. Naturally, there is no lack of «two-faced» pop artists alternating between «womanizing» and «romantic» moods as if changing shirts, but you can just get away with it if you really put your heart and mind into both modes — Girl Happy is an embodiment how you can do both of these things really badly at the same time, and when you interweave them the way we have it here, oh boy... hard to believe, really, that many girls could still be falling all over Elvis in this incarnation, but then, the world has always been a weird place.